Friday, December 14, 2018

Unsafe Safe Spaces

There are a lot of ways to describe various mental illnesses. But for
me, I could spend hours just talking about the shame, guilt and
self-loathing.

I recently attended some sensitivity training at work. It's not a
bad thing, though it's pretty predictable.

Out of the entire presentation, mental health was mentioned once, as an
after thought, on one slide. It was the slide defining "protected
categories". I believe the line was "physical or mental disability".

Physical disability is something I remember being a very big deal when
I was younger. There was a lot of change, a lot of new
regulation. Something called the Americans with Disabilities Act was
kind of a big deal. When the dust settled, pretty much everyone agreed
it was a good thing and we had all become a lot more sensible.

Then I remember, at another point during my childhood, a similar
episode of public awakening around "sexual harrassment". Again, it
seemed like some were upset, but generally it seemed like we had
collectively come to our senses.

Generally these days, I believe we vaguely agree simply on "don't be a
dick", though there are plenty of disagreements on some of the finer
points and boundaries. I don't have a problem with this at all. I
think most decent human beings are fine with being nice and respectful
to each other. Of course, not everyone is decent, nice or respectful.

And sometimes, that person is me. No really, sometimes I am a real
jerk. And it's not even hard for me to see. We're not even talking
about splitting hairs or grey areas. Sometimes I am a massive jerk,
and I should probably be fired, publicly, as an example of what
happens to assholes at safe workplaces. My actions and their
consequences should be clear. Nobody could possibly fault anyone for
ridding themselves of such a toxic creature. And I hate myself for
it. I live with crushing shame. Often times I do and say things I
later cannot possibly fathom. I used to find myself completely out of
control.

Recently this impulsive behavior was explained to me, then to an
employer, by a doctor, in a letter, as a disability, protected by law.

And frankly, I don't feel one bit better about it. In fact, in a lot
of ways, I feel worse. Not only am I an absolutely miserable piece of
shit, I'm also "disabled", and I somehow get to make some kind of
excuse about how I'm an absolutely miserable piece of
shit. Furthermore, the disability isn't that I don't know, AND THIS IS
THE IMPORTANT BIT, and am incapable of self-reflection or indentifying
just how miserable I am. I am fully capable of that. The disability is
that *sometimes I can't control myself despite this*. So yes, I am
fully self-aware, and I get to spend my waking hours under the weight
of a completely functional and healthy conscience.

If you can imagine this existence, you can easily see how suicide is
not only an option, but a very attractive one. Tangental to this, my
latest medication carries a small risk of sudden death while tapering
up on it. Risk of death. That "side-effect" was not even a
consideration for me, as the alternative is sure death.

Futhermore, what you are reading, right now, at this moment, is from
someone who, thanks to medication, no longer suffers as described. And
only because of that, even has the awareness to describe it. In the
past, there was a time when I was not only ill but also not even aware
of it, let alone medicated or treated. I am able to live, today,
thanks to combined therapies. Imagine who and what I was before, and
how that led up to the breaking points where someone finally said, on
the record, in terms that carry medical and legal significance, as I
sit there devoid of shoelaces and belt, "this person has a
pathological condition and needs our help."

Now, if you recall previously I had delivered such a written diagnosis
to an employer. This was not done lightly or for academic
purposes. This was done because I had been a gigantic, intolerable
asshole during a hypomanic episode. And, looking at the real
possibility of (totally deserved) disciplinary action from my
employer, was convinced to accept protection as a disabled person.

I just want to restate, at this point, that I do not in any way feel
less guilt, or feel at all mollified because a piece of paper from
someone with a lot of schooling says I'm disabled. It just means I get
to have a job. A combination of medication and therapy has me to the
point where I am far less of a jerk than I used to be, and that maybe
that's good enough to see the sunrise tomorrow. Also, these pieces of
paper don't automagically smooth things over with the people you
screamed at. In case you were wondering.

So where does that leave things? Well, I presented my doctor's note
and diagnosis. I saved my own ass. What about the person who was
treated poorly by me? Do they get any justice? Should they?

What happens when you have the ADA behind you and an offended employee
in front of you? It's becoming increasingly common today for employees
to "stand up" against their company when they perceive no disciplinary
action. An employer cannot disclose a disability, they can only
respond that they have acted appropriately under the law. Put these
two together. Add in the increase of public shaming.

I don't like where this is going. It's not going to end well. In fact,
I'm confident people will die before it is over.